It was late. It was raining. And dark. And cold.
The sound of the folk group wafted down the street from the Flying Horse as I nibbled at something that might once have been a cod before it was cremated and sealed in cardboard flavoured yellow concrete and stuffed in newspaper with slices of raw potato.
I opened the pub door as the north eats premier (and only) Lesbian anti Pedophile band Boris and the Pedos sang.
"String the buggers up"
"String the buggers up"
"There's nothing as vile as a pedophile, so string the buggers up!" An audience of three skin heads and an old codger who mistook it for dominoes night sat there bored out their skulls.
"All right Johnno?" Boris the lead singer shouted as her band rested between numbers.
Nearly bald, five five over twenty stone, squeezed into extra large jeans three sizes too small with a leather jacket what had probably been old when the first world war was on she was the sort of butch lesbian who got butch lesbians a bad name.
Mind you the way she liked fucking convicted pedos up the ass with a sledge hammer handle made me wonder whether she actually was a lesso. She had cracking bass baritone voice though, pity she was tone deaf.
"Not so bad, how's it going?" I asked.
"Not so bad," she said, "Any favorites?"
"Bit of poetry?" I suggested, "The gallows tree?"
"Sit thee down, and rest awhile."
"And watch the lonely pedophile." I started
"As swaying gently in the breeze, he dangles from the gallows tree!" she finished, ah that's poetry.
"You can't bring food in here," Sandra the barmaid shouted.
"Its from the kebab shop, I don't reckon it counts as food," I moaned.
"Them fucking cunts hates us," Harley Charlie, the moped riding chief skinhead announced, "They ought to fuck off back where the come from."
"Where fucking Oldham?" his mate asked.
"Who gives a fuck, lets have a sing song, that old one," he said drunkenly, "White Cliffs of Dover!"
"We'll chuck Pedos over, the White Cliffs of Dover,tomorrow just you wait and see."
"We'll get all them bastards and chuck the rest over after," I suggested, "Then we'll be fucking Pedo free!"
"You got the words Johnno?" Boris asked.
"No I just fucking made it up, Jesus fucking christ." I replied.
"Make a cracking record," Charlie said, and he stood up, "Need a shit, get the drinks in Nobber."
"Why the fuck do I always get to get the drinks in?" Nobber asked.
"'Cause your on benefits, no one else got any cash?" I suggested.
"Fucking hard work, benefits, having to remember to fucking limp." Nobber said, but no one gave a fuck.
"What you having Johnno?" Sandra asked.
"Anal?" I suggested.
"To drink not later you filthy bastard!" Sandra retorted and Boris flashed me a black look, she must have thought she had pulled.
"Rats piss," I said.
"You can have one Stella 'cause I know what your like after a few pints eh Mr Floppy!" Sandra laughed.
"All fucking right, it was only once." I stammered as me face went bright red, "Ever ready me."
"Fuck anything anything any time?" John Hunt the bookie from Matson street walked out the bog and started taunting me. Hunt the Cunt as we called him.
"Long as its over 18, and has a cunt and a pulse," I protested.
"Like a cow?" he laughed.
"Technically they has a vestibule not a cunt," I said using my superior intellect gained from watching pointless fucking game shows and similar crap on pointless fucking daytime TV.
"Her then," he said pointing at Boris.
"Fuck off she's a fucking Lesso." I said supportively.
"Fifty quid says you can't." He suggested.
"Fifty quid each?" Boris asked.
"Two hundred, make it five!" Hunt the Cunt taunted.
"Christ," Boris said, "I could use a few quid as it happens."
"Oh for fucks sake," Hunt sighed, "I was taking the piss."
"We heard," Harley Charlie chuckled, "What you reckon Johnno?"
